


rest your heavy soul

by epsiloneridani



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Sarrish, Blood, Gen, Violence, the horrors of war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24993802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: The sun sets on ruin.Cody blinks against it. The sky is swathed in golden streaks; the sky is bleeding crimson beams. It blends heaven and hell and bathes the broken earth below. Step by stumbling step, Cody moves beneath its suffocating glow.--The 212th Attack Battalion at the Battle of Sarrish. They fight - they burn - they die.And, in the aftermath, they learn how to survive.
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 132
Kudos: 310





	1. Chapter 1

The sun sets on ruin.

Cody blinks against it. The sky is swathed in golden streaks; the sky is bleeding crimson beams. It blends heaven and hell and bathes the broken earth below. Step by stumbling step, Cody moves beneath its suffocating glow.

He’s close, now.

The field stretches to the horizon. For a second, he staggers to a stop and stares into it. Then he lifts his heavy soles and forces himself on again.

Too close, now.

He finds the walker collapsed into a crater, half-buried in the cragged turf. The cockpit is cracked wide; the pilot dangles from his seat straps, swaying softly to and fro. Cody presses a trembling palm to his chest.

“Rest, brother,” he whispers. The wind howls, a mournful ghost to haunt these forsaken plains. “Just rest.”

The crater is wide and deep. Cody eases one foot into it, then the other, struggling to find purchase in the loose soil of the incline. Eventually, he drops down and lets himself slide all the way to the bottom. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get back up. For the moment, he doesn’t care.

The light is dimmer here, falling across the cursed ground in pallid shafts; the wind is muted, a moan instead of a scream. Cody picks his way forward cautiously, careful to step around the shattered plastoid and not on top of it. Battered armor and bloody soil and the twisted shell of a warped walker: that’s all these men will ever have to mark their graves.

There are crates scattered about, most blown wide. Cody brushes his fingertips along one as he passes by. It’s distorted, blackened by ash, but if he strains his eyes, the red mark all of his medics wear is just barely visible on the side. It’s full of supplies; bacta and bandages spill through the cracks. The shrapnel from the artillery shells cut the durasteel to pieces.

Cody doesn’t want to think about what it did to the bodies buried deep. A storm kicked up halfway through the battle; he can still feel the grit in his teeth when he clenches his jaw. He tastes the telltale granules now, bitter like blood, sharp like iron.

Caught between the tempest and the artillery, these men never stood a chance.

There are darker shadows on the other side of the crater. They’re not crates. Cody curls his hand into a fist and makes himself stumble on, one foot in front of the other, until he reaches his goal.

Cody crashes to his knees. He doesn’t feel the impact.

“General,” he croaks, when he has his voice again. His ears are ringing. “I found them.”

Kenobi doesn’t answer him, but Cody knows he must have heard. He hasn’t turned his comm off since they split off from what was left of their meager encampment. The Separatists have long since moved on from this portion of the planet; there’s no tactical significance to it. Sarrish is rich in resources and strategically situated; it’ll become a functional staging ground for future Confederacy assaults, but the ore for which they fought so furiously can only be collected in the mines on the other side of the planet. The trace veins that twist through the rest of the world allow short-range transmissions, but serve to disrupt scanners and surveillance.

Cody swallows against the hysteria swelling in his chest. Surveillance. Like anyone would be looking for survivors after those salvos. The base is gone. The walkers are gone. The gunships are gone. The _Negotiator_ had to flee the system with the rest of the fleet.

Maybe if they attract enough attention, the Separatists will bring them a ship to steal.

He feels Kenobi before he sees him, a whisper of calm in the silent carnage. Briefly, Cody thinks he should have heard him coming up behind him – then wonders if it’s even possible to hear anything past the deafening pulse of blood pounding in his ears.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan says. His voice is muted. Aching. Cody can’t bring himself to answer. There’s a soft rustle as Kenobi kneels down beside him.

“You found Halcyon,” Obi-Wan says, and Cody nods, short and jerky. His heartbeat ticks up, up; his breath catches in his throat. All at once, he collapses forward and bows his head to the beaten chestplate before him. It’s cracked and caving, and if the impact did that to Halcyon’s armor, Cody can only imagine what it did to his ribs and his lungs. He winds a hand around Halcyon’s and squeezes – and holds.

Kenobi’s hand settles on his shoulder, a firm and grounding weight. Cody rattles a harsh breath. “They fired on a medical station,” he chokes. His eyes burn, burn like the sun that scathes these hell-wrought plains, burn like the last breath Halcyon fought to take. “On the wounded. There were more important targets. Why….”

They both know why; he doesn’t need to ask. The grip on his shoulder tightens. “I know,” Kenobi says. His voice cracks. “I know, Cody.”

If they make it out of this alive, they’re going to need more medics – and those men are in desperately short supply as it is. Cody guesses, in the detached, tactical center of his mind, that it makes a brutal sort of sense. Droids can be shipped off to a repair facility or sent to a scrap yard. The Republic’s army is flesh and blood; when one of them is injured, they require compassion and skilled care. It takes years to train a fully functional medic; if they’re all dead and gone, more of the burden will fall to Kamino – and then, when Kamino can no longer keep up, to the Jedi. Too many wounded, too few healers.

They’ll be overwhelmed sooner rather than later. And the Separatists will march on, stronger with every supply line they seize from the beleaguered GAR.

“How many?” Cody whispers.

“What?”

“How many survivors did you find?” Cody repeats, trying to steel his voice. It comes out listless instead.

Obi-Wan’s breath hitches. “Enough,” he says. “I found enough, Cody. They’re above-ground, hiding in a small system of caves. The veins of ore should shield them from any life-form scanners the Separatists may be employing.”

“We have to find a way off this planet.”

“I know.”

“There’s an airbase a few kliks south,” Cody says, in that same blank tone. “We might be able to steal a shuttle with a hyperdrive.”

Obi-Wan is silent for a beat. “Yes,” he says. “Perhaps.”

Cody heaves a shuddering breath, then makes himself straighten. He shifts to face Kenobi.

The man looks haggard on his best days, lately, but now it’s especially pronounced. His eyes are bloodshot and scarred by deep shadows. There’s a nasty gash on his cheek; he wears a gruesome mask of crusty, crimson-tainted grime. His hair is matted and gnarled; his robes are tattered; one sleeve is shorter than the other, as if he tore off a length of it to bind a wound. Cody wonders which of the survivors has the missing fabric. Wonders if it was one of the survivors, or just a dying man Kenobi cradled and comforted, all soft soothing; he’s gentle in his quiet moments, even in war.

Somehow, he’s held on to his compassion.

“We should get topside,” Cody says.

Obi-Wan studies him for a long beat, then slowly, so slowly, reaches out and clasps either side of his helmet. The seal breaks with a low hiss; Kenobi lifts it away.

Until the choked air hit his face, Cody hadn’t realized he was crying.

Obi-Wan sets his helmet aside with something like reverence. His eyes find Cody’s. Wordlessly, Cody bows his head to Kenobi’s shoulder; Obi-Wan’s hand presses to the back of his neck, a heavy comfort. For a moment, they’re still in the scorched silence.

On Kamino, Taun We would recite a mantra: _From water you are born. In fire you die. Your bodies seed the stars_. Cody had never sought much solace from the saying, platitude that it was, but the troopers in the rank-and-file classes clung to it, desperate for some small assurance that, when they took their final breath, their souls would live on in sidereal song.

Halcyon is silent. If his soul is striking a chord somewhere in the stars, Cody can’t hear it.

He takes a shaky breath and gathers himself. “We need to get topside,” he reminds, and pushes himself to his feet. He stumbles more than he means to. Obi-Wan steadies him, then presses his helmet into his waiting hands. Cody slips it back on; the seal hisses shut. He doesn’t say _thank you_. He doesn’t need to.

Obi-Wan knows.

Kenobi leads them back toward the edge of the crater’s incline. “You can try to climb that,” Obi-Wan says, “if you wish.”

“Not likely.”

Cody rests an arm across Obi-Wan’s shoulders at the same moment Kenobi snakes an arm around Cody’s waist. As one, they crouch, coil, and leap. Obi-Wan propels them with the Force, guiding them into a gentle descent. Cody lands softly beside him, following Kenobi’s gaze to the cliffs on the horizon.

“That’s where I’ve gathered the survivors,” Obi-Wan says, and they march on. The sky has faded to a twilight grey; the stars strain to be seen past the last light of the sun’s broken beams.

Cody stops feeling every step.

The rest of the men are gathered deeper in the caves. Cody catches sight of Crys, standing sentinel in the shadows. His helmet is gone. His hair, usually golden and gleaming, is ratted and streaked with filth. “Commander,” he says, bleeding relief, “it’s good to see you alive.”

Cody rests a hand on his shoulder for a moment. “You too, Crys,” he says. His voice is thick. He clears his throat. “You too.”

Trapper and Gearshift are posted outside a larger cavern. Cody nods at them and steps inside. There’s no opening in the cavern ceiling; the area is lit only by the dim glow of a few field lanterns. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust.

Wooley is seated against the far wall with one hand pressed to his chest and the other resting beside him. His helmet is in his lap. Cody’s heart turns; Wooley’s one of their youngest; he wasn’t even sixteen when he shipped out of Kamino. Even now, he still doesn’t fit into regulation armor. Trapper and Gears rigged up custom kit for him and the rest of his batch brothers.

Cody sweeps the cavern. None of Wooley’s batch brothers are anywhere to be seen. It’s too much to hope they made it out on a transport.

“I’m _fine_ , Mirj,” Longshot growls, and Cody’s head snaps to them.

“You’re not,” Mirjahaal returns, calmer than the twitch in his jaw betrays him to be. He presses a bacta patch to the wound on Longshot’s temple. “You’re lucky the shrapnel just sheared through your helmet and didn’t take out your eye.”

Cody makes his way over to them. Longshot jolts. “Commander!”

Warmth swells in Cody’s chest. “Stay down, Longshot,” he says. “And listen to Mirj.”

Longshot grumbles, but obeys. Cody sweeps the cavern again. Mirj is Ghost Company’s only surviving medic. Davijaan has wandered in and propped himself against the wall beside Wooley. In total, the survivors number only nine, counting Kenobi.

“Eleven,” Obi-Wan corrects, suddenly beside him. Cody does his best not to jump. “I sent Waxer and Boil on a scouting mission before you contacted me. They should be back soon.”

The rush of relief is dizzying. Obi-Wan takes a step closer and presses their shoulders together, a subtle support. Cody leans into it as lightly as he can manage. “It’s possible a few more made it out on the transports,” Obi-Wan says, but he doesn’t look hopeful – or confident. “Regardless, we are on our own as far as evacuation goes – and I can’t imagine the Separatists will make our escape easy.”

“We have Davijaan,” Cody points out, before he can correct himself; Davijaan’s been Oddball to everyone except the command class for as long as Cody can remember. “Oddball. He can pilot the shuttle.”

“Oddball broke his arm,” Mirj supplies mildly.

“I can fly,” Davijaan calls from across the room. His hand falls to Wooley’s shoulder. Wooley doesn’t so much as twitch. His eyes are dim, distant and unfocused. His fingers drum a numb rhythm into the dust. He hasn’t processed the loss yet, Cody knows, and won’t until they’re safe and away. “Just put me in the pilot’s seat.”

Cody snorts. Typical Davijaan. Obi-Wan furrows his brows. “Very well,” he agrees, but it’s strung out and hesitant. Letting Davijaan fly means letting Davijaan cause himself pain.

“We don’t have another option,” Cody reminds lowly. “He’s the best pilot in the entire Seventh Sky Corps, General. If anyone can get us past those defenses, it’s Oddball.”

“I know.” Obi-Wan curls a hand into a fist. He turns to Cody suddenly, a wild, desperate light in his eyes. “Maybe I could—”

“No,” Cody says, before he can suggest it. He needs all of the energy he has for the battle ahead; he can’t afford to expend any of it on anything else, even healing.

Kenobi knows it, too. “Right,” he mutters, and folds his arms across his chest. “You’re right, of course.”

Cody moves from trooper to trooper in an easy pattern until he feels the faint tug of Kenobi’s urgency. Waxer and Boil must be back.

His ARCs are standing further down the passage. Obi-Wan is beside them. Cody comes to a stop and glances between them. Both have their helmets tucked neatly under their arms and, other than the exhaustion lining their faces, Cody can find no indication that they’re any worse for wear.

“We have good news and bad news, sir,” Waxer supplies.

Cody tilts his head at him. “Out with it.”

“The good news is that there’s a shuttle with a hyperdrive,” Boil says.

“The bad news,” Waxer says, “is that it belongs to Count Dooku.”

* * *

“Guess they’re not expecting company.”

The landing platform is under light guard. Cody knows as well as anyone else in their ragged group that rushing in headlong is suicide. There are two autoturrets at the base’s entrance; three fireteams of four droids each are on an overlapping patrol around the base’s perimeter, but there are hardly any enemies beyond them. The reinforcements must be stationed within the garrison situated in the far right corner.

If they didn’t have wounded, Cody would suggest just scaling the wall, slipping by the patrols, and commandeering the shuttle before they had the chance to even realize they had intruders. But Davijaan has a broken arm. Wooley’s ribs are cracked. Trapper and Gears both sustained blaster wounds to their torsos, and everyone else, Cody and Obi-Wan included, are fractured or singed in some way.

“You have a plan, General?” Cody asks.

“I think yours may be the only viable option,” Obi-Wan says, a low murmur at his side. They’re huddled in a crater hollowed out by an artillery shell, less than half a klik from the base’s gates. Kenobi shifts to face him. “We can’t risk a full frontal assault. It’ll attract too much attention.”

Cody grimaces. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“We still have a few grappling launchers. I can assist anyone who struggles.”

Cody blows out a long breath. “We’ll have to be fast.”

“Indeed.” Obi-Wan’s face is distant for a long moment, and Cody knows he’s sending out tendrils in the Force, searching for the sickness and the dark: Dooku. Some of the uneasiness slips away; the tension in Kenobi’s jaw relaxes.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan says, “but I don’t know for how long.”

Kenobi told him about lineages and bonds and ripples in the Force. Qui-Gon had been Obi-Wan’s master, but had himself been trained by Dooku. Consequently, there existed a connection between Dooku and Kenobi, faint and twisted as it was. Obi-Wan said he could cloak himself for a time.

Straining to see through the dark with his cracked microbinoculars, Cody isn’t particularly eager to find out just how long _a time_ really is.

Cody organizes them into two fireteams, assigns Waxer and Boil as their leaders, and steps to the front to head the squad.

On Kenobi’s mark, they move.

No floodlights flash to their position. They make it to the wall unscathed, spreading out single-file. Cody holds up a hand to halt their motion, then snaps it shortly toward the wall. Longshot and Crys launch the grappling hooks; they make a distant, metallic din as they settle. The lines pull tight.

“Davijaan,” Cody calls quietly, and Davijaan, halfway to the rope, stops and turns. “With me.”

Davijaan knows better than to argue; wordlessly, he lets Cody hoist him into a carry. “Just like Kamino, huh?” he says, barely a whisper, and Cody chuffs a breath.

It’s the closest thing to a laugh that he can manage.

One by one, they ascend. Wooley is second to last. Obi-Wan is the only one below him, steadying him with outstretched arms. Once everyone else has reached the summit, Kenobi propels himself up in a single, bounding leap. He lands beside Cody in a rustle of cloth and wind.

Cody signals his squad follow, then takes hold of a ladder, braces his feet on either side of the rungs, and slides to the ground. Davijaan eases off his shoulders.

The landing pad is situated in the center of the compound, surrounded by crates of supplies and unmanned tanks, but unguarded by active enemy units. Cody scans the immediate vicinity a final time. The patrols are still spread out, focused only on the space directly ahead of them

Wait

Hold.

Go.

Waxer palms open the shuttle door, then waves the others onboard. Cody feels the surge of awareness from Kenobi before he sees the threat. He doesn’t ask what it is; he just drops to the rear of their formation alongside him. Every muscle in Obi-Wan’s body is taut – tensed.

For a breathless, broken beat, they’re still in perfect silence.

In a flash, Obi-Wan ignites his saber and lunges forward to meet the shadow soaring toward them. The burning blue blade meets the seething crimson strike with a shattering clash.

“General Kenobi,” Dooku says. His sneer is illuminated by the blazing glow between them. “What a pleasant surprise. My droids reported that you had been slain in the initial assault.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh, I’m not disappointed at all,” Dooku says. “Now I have the pleasure of killing you myself.”

“Cody, get onboard,” Kenobi snarls, straining. Cody takes a few steps back and stops short. Obi-Wan gives a half a foot of precious ground, braces himself, and then throws all of his weight forward. The force of his surging power pushes Dooku back a few paces.

“Cody!”

In the space of a second, Cody remembers every lesson about acceptable losses. Remembers the broken bodies in the crater. Remembers Halcyon’s cold hand clenched tight in his own. Remembers Obi-Wan at his side, steady and close. His breath catches in his throat.

They have to go.

Cody spins and sprints.

He’s taken one step onto the ramp when his body seizes. Cody struggles against it futilely before he realizes with a frozen terror that it’s not his armor. It’s the Force. He barely has time to brace himself before he’s flying back. There’s a rush of wind, ripping at his face. He wonders, for a brief and stupid second, when he lost his helmet.

He snaps to an abrupt stop, suspended midair. Dooku is an oppressive presence behind him. A morbid pressure creeps into Cody’s throat, closing its icy grip around his esophagus and turning like a vice. He chokes and lifts his trembling hands to claw weakly at his collar. The last breath of oxygen seeps into his lungs, a brief and fleeting salve for the swelling ache.

Obi-Wan stops himself mid-lunge, falling forward with his momentum before he settles back onto his heels and straightens. “Don’t!” he cries, and lifts a hand in a silent plea. Mercy.

Mercy would be too kind.

Cody feels the blade like a flame, searing into his ribs. He wants to scream but all he can do is writhe. He kicks and twists uselessly, tearing violently at his own throat in a frantic bid for a breath. Through the grey and the haze, he finds the strength for still. Obi-Wan meets his gaze.

There is no serenity. There is only rage.

Power swells around Kenobi, rising from some untold depths in a wild and blistering wave. It builds like a nightmare storm until he’s seething with the same death and pain that saturates the forsaken plains. Obi-Wan looses a soul-piercing scream and thrusts both of his hands forward. There’s a pulse, a pressure, an ache.

And the hold breaks.

Cody drops. The vice is gone. He heaves a ragged breath. There’s a strong grip, lifting him up and dragging him away.

It hurts to breathe.

“Cody?”

The floor beneath him is solid, but his torso is raised. Dimly, he realizes he’s cradled against Kenobi’s chest.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan says. His voice cracks. Numbly, Cody does his best to lift his head – to see. There’s a smoldering hole on the right side of his abdomen. He chokes a disbelieving cough.

“Hold on,” Obi-Wan says, distant and faraway. “Just hold on.”

The darkness rises: if he sinks into its depths, he’ll never escape.

Cody rattles an unsteady breath and fights to stay.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan reaches out into the Force, sweeping his senses across the ship. It’s so much emptier now, silent instead of humming with vibrant life. He memorized the name of every man in his battalion; he knew them by their signature before he saw them in passing. There are echoes where there should be sparks.
> 
> Shadows and ghosts.

He’s learned to hate the quiet.

Obi-Wan hears every click of the chrono like a bomb. He breathes and taps and paces in time with it. Mirj directs him to the wounded. He heals them as best he can, holds their hands and whispers _rest, now_ until he can barely stand.

And time ticks on.

Cody’s in a bacta tank. Obi-Wan hasn’t seen him since the shuttle touched down in the _Negotiator’s_ bay and a team of medics surged in to rush him away. Obi-Wan tells himself he’d know if Cody had died – if that vat of cool blue had become a tomb instead of a mortal tether. He knows Cody, in the Force. He reaches for him, now, and feels the same faint flicker. The same light. Some of the tension wound tight in his chest eases.

“You need to sleep.”

Obi-Wan unprops himself from the medbay wall and blinks blearily until the medic comes into focus. Mirj crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. Obi-Wan can’t see himself, he hasn’t really looked in a mirror since before Sarrish, but he’s sure he deserves every ounce of judgment Mirj is directing toward him. Almost self-consciously, he drags a hand through his hair. It catches in a coil of ratted locks. He wants to flinch.

“I’ll sleep,” Obi-Wan says, “when you do.”

Mirj snorts. “Not likely, General,” he says, and blows out a long breath. His dark hair is longer on top and buzzed into an undercut on the sides. Usually, he keeps it well-ordered. Now, it sticks up at all angles. There are deep purple crescents beneath his bloodshot eyes.

“Not likely?”

Mirj swallows thickly. “We lost a lot of medics back there,” he says, and clears his throat. “They need all of us.”

“Surely they can spare you for an hour.”

Mirj shakes his head immediately. “No,” he says. “I won’t leave them.”

“There’s nothing more you can do,” Obi-Wan reminds gently.

“I could say the same thing about you,” Mirj says. “But you’re still here.”

Obi-Wan stares at him. “Fair point,” he concedes, a long beat later, and scrubs at his eyes. “I suppose my only consolation is that you are just as bad as I am.”

“I’m not draining myself to heal the wounded, sir,” Mirj says mildly.

Obi-Wan flinches at that before he can stop himself. He doesn’t remember most of their time on the shuttle; he only remembers cradling Cody’s face between his trembling palms, bowing over him and willing him to live. With every breath he gave a broken plea: _I am one with the Force and the Force is with me_. He couldn’t mend the seared flesh; he couldn’t seal the gaping maw. He could only murmur that fevered mantra like a prayer and press Cody’s heart to pulse on.

“I’m staying,” Obi-Wan says firmly, instead of answering.

Mirj sighs. For a second, he looks like he might argue, then his shoulders sag and all of the fight drains out of his frame. He crosses the space to pass Obi-Wan a datapad. “The casualty and MIA list,” he says. His lower lip is trembling. He presses a hand over his mouth for a beat and takes a shuddery breath. His lashes flutter – faster, faster.

Obi-Wan rests a hand on his shoulder until his breathing evens, then gently pries the datapad out of his grasp. “I’ll look over this,” he says softly, guiding Mirj to the medic’s cot in the corner. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you if you’re needed.”

“I can’t,” Mirj says, but it’s a faint protest. Obi-Wan tucks the blanket over him.

“I’ll wake you if you’re needed,” he repeats, and does his best to keep the weariness out of his smile. “Rest.”

Once he’s reasonably certain that Mirj isn’t going to jolt awake the second he leaves, Obi-Wan makes his way to the back of the medical bay. There’s one chair there. The door beside which it’s situated leads to a chamber that houses the critically injured: it’s full of bacta tanks and life-support devices.

The chair is Cody’s. Mirj put it there to appease him. From it, Cody keeps vigil.

And now, so does Obi-Wan.

“How do you sit on this thing for hours at a time?” Obi-Wan grumbles, easing down. It’s not a comfortable chair; when he isn’t moving around the medbay, soothing his men and assisting Mirj with their care, he’s here, shifting about in a futile bid for some small comfort.

Cody doesn’t answer his accusation, through the Force or otherwise. Obi-Wan brushes against his mind again, a touch like a gentle hand on the shoulder. There’s that faint light, a muted shower of sparks that tells him Cody’s aware of his presence, but only vaguely. Obi-Wan presses a ripple of calm to him: the warmth of a smile, the comfort of a tight embrace.

 _It’s all right. I’m here. You’re safe_.

Obi-Wan stares at the datapad for longer than he thinks he should before he gathers the courage to open the file. The list of the missing and the dead is massive and in a constant state of flux; the evacuation from Sarrish wasn’t a clean one. The most critically wounded men were immediately offloaded onto shuttlecraft for transport to the nearest medical station while the skeleton staff on the _Negotiator_ struggled to treat the rest. In the resultant chaos, no one bothered to make proper note of the transfers, so consequently, there’s no clear record of who’s dead and who’s still alive.

They lost most of their commandos: Foxtrot is largely gone. Gregor, Ijaat, and Dral are all listed as MIA. Jaster was moved to a medical center, but by the field that denotes the document’s last change, his survival was something they only learned about this morning when someone on Kamino finally updated his file. Obi-Wan pinches the bridge of his nose and scrolls on.

All of Wooley’s batchmates are dead.

It hits him like a blow to the gut. Obi-Wan’s breath stops in his throat. He stares at the names and tries not to think about Wooley’s wide, bright eyes and how he doesn’t fit into regulation armor.

“May you find some rest, young ones,” he murmurs hoarsely, and presses his palm to the screen like a prayer.

Then he forges on.

* * *

A Jedi does not indulge attachment.

He repeats it to himself with every stroke of his blade. A Jedi connects. A Jedi does not attach. There is no emotion. There is peace. There is no passion. There is serenity. There is no chaos. There is harmony.

There is no death. There is the Force.

Cody, strangled and writhing. Obi-Wan clenches his saber hilt tighter. Victory, in Dooku’s eyes.

Peace.

His saber hums with the next swing. It’s sharper. Harsher. His arms tremble. Breathe. Peace. Not passion.

Serenity.

His chest aches. Obi-Wan thumbs the saber off and lets his hands fall back to his sides. The sparring chamber is empty. His breath is harsh and ragged in his ears. “Peace,” Obi-Wan whispers, and presses his eyes closed. Breathe. Breathe. “Peace.”

He reaches out into the Force, sweeping his senses across the ship. It’s so much emptier now, silent instead of humming with vibrant life. He memorized the name of every man in his battalion; he knew them by their signature before he saw them in passing. There are echoes where there should be sparks.

Shadows and ghosts.

Obi-Wan showers, changes, and makes his way to the medical bay. “Tell me you ate something,” Mirj says, the second he steps foot in the door.

That question is familiar too. “You know I can’t,” Obi-Wan says dryly. “Why do you keep asking me?”

“Why do you keep showing up to my medical bay half-starved?”

“I’m not starved, Mirj. The Living Force—”

“—sustains you. I know. You keep saying that.” Mirj’s eyes bleed open worry. He crosses the space between them in three short strides, seizes Obi-Wan’s hand, and presses a ration bar into it.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. That’s new. “I know,” Mirj repeats. “But please try to understand, General: I can’t feel the Force. I can’t see it. But I can see you, and _you_ have lost a lot of _shabla_ weight since they assigned you to us.”

His tunics hang looser than they should. Dimly, Obi-Wan is glad he’s only spoken to Anakin over a commlink without a holographic interface, and then only briefly. Once he’s calmer, once he’s in control – then he’ll speak of Sarrish to his Padawan. “How’s Cody?” Obi-Wan asks, instead of agreeing. “Is he adjusting well?”

Mirj blows out a breath and lets go of his hand once he’s sure Obi-Wan won’t drop the bar. Maybe he’ll give the thing to Wooley. He hasn’t been eating much either. “I took him out of the bacta tank yesterday,” Mirj says, and scrubs at his eyes. “The four days he spent in it seem to have done the trick. He’s stable. Physically, at least.”

It’s really only been four days since their escape. Obi-Wan’s heart twists. “Is he awake?”

“Not yet.” Mirj’s eyes soften. “But you can sit with him, if you want. He should be coming around soon.”

A Jedi does not indulge attachments. Obi-Wan’s throat is tight. “I’d like that,” he says, and lets Mirj lead him through the medbay. Grief veins through the signatures here, jagged and sharp. Obi-Wan smoothes the ragged edges, willing them even. There’s a soft cry from an adjoining room. He jolts to a stop.

“I let Wooley stay in here,” Mirj says. “He wanted to be closer to Cody.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No,” Mirj says tiredly. “Just trying to sleep.”

“Can I—”

Suspicion flickers in Mirj’s gaze. “We talked about you draining yourself to heal everyone else. Have you rested?”

Mirj knows that answer to that, too. “Yes,” Obi-Wan says, despite it.

Mirj shakes his head and motions to the door. “Can’t hurt,” he sighs. “Do your best.”

Wooley’s tossing and turning on the medical cot. Longshot’s seated on the edge beside him, carding a gentle touch through his brother’s hair. At Obi-Wan’s approach, he freezes. His eyes lock on Mirj.

“I’m not supposed to be up,” he blurts. “I know. It’s just – Wooley was thrashing around.”

“You’re not in trouble for taking care of your brother, Longshot,” Obi-Wan says warmly. The Force moves around Longshot in sinusoidal spikes. Obi-Wan presses calm between them. Grief’s ragged crests meet soothing chasms of comfort, and slowly, those agonizing waves diminish and roll away. Longshot’s signature is smooth again. Undisturbed.

His white-knuckled grip on Wooley’s hand relaxes.

“Speak for yourself,” Mirj mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. “C’mon, Longshot: back to bed. You’re supposed to be resting.”

Longshot lets Mirj lead him away. Obi-Wan hesitates a moment, then moves to the space he’s left behind. Wooley blinks blearily at him. “General,” he croaks. There are dried tear tracks on his face. If unconsciousness granted him a blissful reprieve, it doesn’t show.

“Wooley,” Obi-Wan says gently. Wooley’s fidgets, toying with the edge of his blanket. Obi-Wan pries his grip away as carefully as he can, and laces their fingers together. He doesn’t speak. In the Force, Wooley feels like shattered glass.

Words can’t heal this.

Mirj has moved Cody to a quiet corner of the medical bay, far enough from the others that he won’t be disturbed by their cries, but close enough that he’ll feel their proximity when he finally wakes. Waxer’s dragged a chair close to his bedside and straddled it. His arms are folded over its back; his cheek is pillowed on them. Boil is rubbing soothing circles into his shoulders. Boil turns when Obi-Wan appears behind them, but he doesn’t stiffen or snap to attention. If anything, his posture eases.

“General,” Boil says softly. Waxer doesn’t move. Boil clasps a hand over the back of his neck and squeezes, once. Waxer shakes. A muffled gasp escapes him.

Boil swallows thickly. He drives his teeth into his lip. “It’s okay, Waxer,” he whispers, and presses his forehead to his crown. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Waxer heaves a shuddery breath. “Sorry, General,” he says. “I’m sorry. I…”

His voice breaks.

“It’s all right to cry,” Obi-Wan says. It hurts to breathe, suddenly. “I don’t think less of you for it. It’s healthy to grieve.”

There’s a chasm inside him, where his own grief should be. He reaches into the depths, sometimes, but never too far, and never too long. He fears them. Fears what might be hidden within them.

Hidden within him.

“I know,” Waxer returns. He shakes again. “Thank you.”

Boil presses a hand to his shoulder. Waxer grasps it tightly. For a moment, they stand motionless. Then Waxer gathers himself and staggers upright. Boil wraps an arm around him and leads him, step by shuffling step, from the room.

Cody is so still, in his sleep. Someone’s meticulously smoothed every inch of his blanket and folded the top so it sits neatly across his chest. Crys, Obi-Wan decides. To him, every small order is a measure to control the chaos.

“Hello, there,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and turns the chair around so he can sit on it properly. Cody’s breathing is even. The monitor beside him is small and unobtrusive and tells Obi-Wan that his vitals are stable.

Obi-Wan folds his arms across his chest and settles back. Cody’s quiet, in the Force: soft light. It’s easy to sink into that calm. It’s easy to let the steady pulse drown out the ragged grief. For the first time since Sarrish, he feels a small measure of peace.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

* * *

Cody does not wake up quietly.

“It’s all right,” Obi-Wan says, for the thousandth time, and keeps his gentle hold on Cody’s shoulders. Cody’s eyes are distant, unfocused, fraught with panic and fear and _what am I doing here?_

“You’re on-board the _Negotiator_ ,” Obi-Wan says. “It’s all right. I’m here. You’re safe.”

The mantra closes the distance his other reassurances could not. Cody takes a deep breath. Another. The wild terror in his eyes fades. “Right,” he croaks, and clasps Obi-Wan’s wrist tightly. His throat bobs. All at once, he’s a hurricane of motion, fumbling with his blankets and flailing about until he’s upright. His palm presses to his abdomen, searching.

“Bacta tank,” Obi-Wan says, by way of explanation, and gently pries his hand away. “You were very lucky.”

“I shouldn’t be alive,” Cody rasps. His eyes lock on Obi-Wan’s, deadly serious. Deathly afraid. “I couldn’t have survived that.”

“But you did,” Obi-Wan says, as unconcernedly as he can manage. He folds his hands over Cody’s and squeezes tightly. “You’re alive, my friend.”

Cody stares at their joined hands, then mumbles something under his breath.

“What?”

“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me,” Cody repeats. It’s louder, but still just barely above a whisper. His brows furrow. He meets Obi-Wan’s gaze again. His eyes are stormy. Confused. “Does that mean something to you?”

Everything. “Just rest,” Obi-Wan says, instead of answering. “You have a long recovery ahead of you.”

Cody studies his face for a moment longer, then lets himself fall back down onto his bed. His head hits the pillow with a low thump. “I don’t have time for a long recovery,” he grouses. “How are they?”

“Fine. Recovering,” Obi-Wan says mildly. “As you should be.”

Awake for seven minutes, and already prepared to get back to work. Not for the first time, Obi-Wan’s tempted to point out how self-destructive that is. But he and Cody have had that conversation, many times, and each ends with Cody’s shuttered eyes and tensely-set spine. The Kaminoans drilled drive and anxiety into them in equal measure. Succeed, excel, and you survive. Rest, fall behind, and you’re sentenced to die.

“How many?” Cody asks.

“Too many.”

Cody presses his eyes shut. His lower lip trembles. “Wooley’s brothers,” he whispers. “Are they…”

“I’m afraid so.” Obi-Wan rests a hand on his shoulder. Cody holds onto it like a lifeline. His breath shakes.

“I need to see them,” Cody says. “The survivors. I need to go over the casualty list. I need to—”

“Cody—”

“—check on our supply levels. And repair status. The sooner we’re operational, the sooner we can get back to—”

“ _Cody_.” Obi-Wan says again. Cody’s gaze snaps to him. The storm roils. Turns. Turmoil. “Breathe.”

Cody stares at him again, unblinking. His eyes are wide. “I need to see them,” he repeats. “Please.”

“I’ll talk to Mirj.”

Cody takes a deep breath and nods. It’s silent. Obi-Wan moves to rise. Cody seizes his wrist.

“Thank you,” Cody whispers, fire and fervor. For a second, Obi-Wan thinks he knows he’s right, knows he shouldn’t be alive, but then his grip eases and falls away. His smile is tired. So worn. “I guess I owe you another one.”

Obi-Wan does his best to return the smile. He knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. Either Cody’s too tired to notice, or just grateful enough for the effort that he doesn’t mention it. “You don’t owe me anything,” Obi-Wan says softly.

He doesn’t have to go far to find Mirj. The medic is hovering just outside. “He’s awake,” Obi-Wan says, as if that wasn’t obvious. “He wants to see the others.”

“I thought he might,” Mirj says. “I’ll get them."

Obi-Wan steps out of his way. Once Mirj is gone, he lets himself sag against the wall. His head hits the durasteel with a low thud. _You were lucky_ , he told Cody, and maybe he’s right: maybe the truth is a matter of perspective. There is, after all, no death. There is the Force.

Cody’s heart should have stopped. Would have stopped, without that broken plea. A Jedi does not indulge attachment. A Jedi knows no emotion: only peace.

“I am one with the Force and the Force is with me,” Obi-Wan murmurs, and presses his eyes closed.

He stays there for a long time, still in the silence, and tries to believe.

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [jate-kara](https://jate-kara.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan takes a sharp breath. The air around him shifts away, suffocated, and Cody’s reminded of the forsaken plains: of the dread depths and the nightmare storm and the blistering wave. There’s an echo like a cry; there’s a soul-piercing scream. A pulse. A pressure. An ache. Hold. Breathe. Please.
> 
> I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.

“This is hopeless.”

Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow. “Admitting defeat,” he says, without looking up from the ‘pad in his lap. “That’s not like you, Cody.”

Cody snorts and toys with his own datapad. There’s no use going over the files again; he’s spent the better part of the last three days tearing them apart with Kenobi: trying to find some way, any way, to get the men they need.

“At some point,” he says, “we’re going to have to face reality.”

“Someone somewhere has a medic they can spare,” Obi-Wan says. Cody gives him a disbelieving stare for a moment, willing and daring, but Obi-Wan doesn’t take the bait.

No matter how hard he tries, Kenobi won’t look him in the eyes.

Another problem. Another time. Cody scrubs at his face. “We’re going to have to make do with medical droids,” he says, and worries the edge of his blanket. It’s scratchy, not soft. He hates the thing with a passion. Not for the first time, he thinks about asking Mirj if he can leave the damned medbay yet, and then he remembers the answer he’s gotten the last four times, remembers the weary pain behind his brother’s tired eyes, and thinks better of it.

Obi-Wan stills his fidgeting with an absent touch to his wrist. “Medical droids work well enough for a medical bay,” he says, “but they’re neither adaptable nor agile enough for a battlefield.”

“We could requisition some medical transports,” Cody says. “Set up stations to evac the wounded from.”

Obi-Wan blows out a breath. “If they weren’t already targeting our triage centers, it might be feasible,” he says, a voice for the ticking frustration in Cody’s chest. “I’m afraid the transports would just give them larger targets to shoot at.”

Cody drives his palms into his eyes and does his best to swallow the frustrated growl swelling in his throat. By the gentle hand settling on his shoulder, he doesn’t totally succeed. “Then we’re back to medical droids,” he says, and lifts his head. Obi-Wan’s gaze glances off like glass: he’s looking at him, but he’s looking at him from a distance.

There’s no connection.

Another problem. Another time. “Ideally, we’d have two or three medics in every company,” Cody says, “but they can each manage with one.”

“Perhaps, but Ghost Company is our largest subdivision,” Obi-Wan says. “Mirj is going to need help.”

“We’ll run over first aid with the company,” Cody says. “They could do with a refresher, and if we’re going to be understaffed in the field, they’re going to have to get used to stepping up.”

Kenobi knows as well as he does that basic field first aid is a far cry from the surgical instruction and experience the typical medic receives. There are different courses on Kamino: you’re tested, analyzed, and sorted into paths according to your performance scores. Cody, and all of his brothers from the command class, were selected for their leadership skills. Medics are chosen for their compassion and competence under pressure. ARC troopers not on the command track are born in specific batches like commandos, or comprised of cadets handpicked from different groups across Tipoca City.

“They won’t have the same expertise,” Cody says, “but it’ll have to do.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t seem convinced, but it’s hard to tell with the way he’s looking past Cody, not at him. Cody tries that stare again. Same result. He opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, then closes it just as quickly.

Sarrish hasn’t scarred yet.

“Do you have another plan?” Cody asks. Kenobi jolts as if he’s been startled out of thought. For a long moment, he’s pensive. Silent.

“No,” he says, and shakes his head. His voice is soft. Faraway. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

Kenobi’s seething lonely grief. It’s not an unfamiliar expression; Cody’s seen it too often these last few days: on Waxer, on Wooley, and carved into his own hard-set features when he met his eyes in the mirror.

“Hey,” Cody calls softly. Kenobi jolts again. Cody stills him with a gentle touch to his wrist. In the vulnerable quiet, he’s a brother, not a soldier. “Are you all right?”

Obi-Wan swallows thickly. “Fine, Cody,” he says. His throat bobs, once, again. He tries for a smile. It’s dim. Drained. “I’m fine. Just…just tired. That’s all.”

“You should get some rest.”

“Isn’t that what Mirj has been telling you?”

“I’ve been in a bacta tank or a bed for a week,” Cody drawls. “I think that’s plenty of rest.”

“You were impaled.” It must have come out hoarser than Obi-Wan meant it to; he clears his throat harshly. “You need to take this time, Cody. Your recovery is paramount.”

Cody snorts. “They’d be fine without me,” he says, and means it. If he goes down and doesn’t get back up, he has orders in place to promote one of his battalion commanders to marshal commander, and bump Waxer from lieutenant to captain. Waxer would become the second-in-command to the Seventh Sky Corps’ clone marshal commander, and the third-in-command to Kenobi, and Ghost Company would carry on all the same.

The war won’t stop to mourn one man.

Obi-Wan takes a sharp breath. The air around him shifts away, suffocated, and Cody’s reminded of the forsaken plains: of the dread depths and the nightmare storm and the blistering wave. There’s an echo like a cry; there’s a soul-piercing scream. A pulse. A pressure. An ache. Hold. Breathe. Please.

I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.

“General?” Cody croaks.

Obi-Wan curls a hand into a fist. All at once, the pressure dissipates. He takes a measured breath. Another. “You should get some sleep,” Obi-Wan says abruptly, and stands. “I’ll continue looking into the medic situation. Perhaps a solution will present itself.”

“General—” Cody starts, but Obi-Wan pays him no heed. The door swishes shut behind him. Cody shivers. It isn’t cold.

For a moment, he feels completely alone.

Cody drags a hand down his face and blows out a breath, shaking his head from side to side to dislodge the sinking unease. Just Sarrish. Just that hell-soaked ruin. They’re all drowning in grief, but the war marches on. The war always marches on.

They’re not going to get a reprieve.

He taps at his datapad until his fingers go numb, sending the same message out over and over. The other commanders will receive it, again, and reply to it, again, with the same gentle rebuff: _Sorry, Cody. Can’t help you_. And he’ll wait a day, go over the files that have barely changed, and redistribute the request. None of the wounded they’ve located on recovery stations or Kamino have been medics.

“No luck?” Mirj asks, on his seventh cycle of the room. Cody almost asks him when he last slept, and doesn’t.

None of them are sleeping right now.

“No,” Cody says. “Medics are in short supply.”

Mirj snorts softly. “There weren’t many of us to begin with,” he says, and shakes his head. His lower lip trembles. He clears his throat. Blinks. Blinks. “How are you feeling?”

Cody’s hand goes to his abdomen. He presses at the wound’s site. It’s closed, now: knitted together by Mirj’s steady hands and then regenerated by the bacta. There’s a hell of a scar forming where the saber seared through his flesh. His fingernails find its tender edges and drive in deep.

Mirj pries his hand away. “Stop,” he says, and twines their fingers together and squeezes. His eyes are kind. Dark. Tired. “Just leave it alone, okay? It’s closed up but I don’t want you messing with it.”

“It should have killed me,” Cody blurts. “That kind of wound. It should have killed me.”

Mirj drives his teeth into his lip. He shifts uneasily, rocking his weight from foot to foot. Cody’s reminded of Kenobi’s stare.

“It didn’t,” Mirj says at last. He swallows thickly. His throat bobs. His eyes shine, suddenly. “Let’s just leave it at that, Cody.”

Cody nods silently. Mirj lets go of his hand. “Rest,” Mirj says, instead of _thank you_ , and moves off into the medbay: on his way to tend to the rest of the wounded – mourn the dying, mend the living.

Cody lies in the dim quiet, staring at the sterile white ceiling. Halcyon’s eyes are burned into his mind. He thinks of that caved chestplate, of that final broken breath, and wonders if it felt like hanging motionless, caught in the veil. Wonders if the dark rushed over him, or if he suffered slowly in the blood-wrought silence as eternity turned in his chest. Wonders if he saw the stars one more time. Wonders if he felt that lightless pull, tugging at his soul, and if, through the splintered shards and burning pain, he fought to stay.

Again, Cody presses his hand to the tender flesh. It pulses beneath his palm. If he closes his eyes, he feels the saber’s heat. Feels that soul-shaken scream.

The quiet aches.

He doesn’t sleep.

* * *

“You look like shit.”

Cody blows out a long breath and does his best to give Wolffe a scowl. The chair in his office is uncomfortable on a good day, when he’s been up and moving around. Sitting in it for hours after spending the last week prone has been hell.

His side aches.

“Thanks,” Cody grouses. “I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” Wolffe returns, without missing a beat, and falls silent. Scrutinizing. Cody’s suddenly tempted to turn the holo to audio only.

“You said you had something to tell me,” Cody prompts.

Wolffe waits another long moment to speak again. “Yeah,” he says, and drags a hand down his face. The holo isn’t high quality. Wolffe’s battalion is skirting the edges of the Outer Rim right now; every few seconds, the transmission flickers. Even so, Cody can still see the way his smile shakes.

“Wolffe,” Cody says quietly. “I’m okay.”

“Like hell you are,” Wolffe says flatly. “Was I okay after Abregado?”

Cody’s throat is tight. He remembers making the call – remembers the static silence that came after. Remembers Rex’s hand on his shoulder and Kenobi’s steady presence at his side. Remembers rushing to the landing bay and pulling Wolffe close. Remembers telling him to breathe through the tremors: _I’m here. It’s all right. You’re safe now_. Remembers staying by his side until he finally fell asleep.

Remembers the emptiness in his eyes when he woke back up.

“No,” Cody says. “You weren’t.”

“Cody, if you need to talk—”

“What I need,” Cody interrupts, “is for you to tell me what this is about.”

Wolffe blows out a long breath. Cody waits until he’s finished rolling his eyes to quirk an expectant eyebrow.

“I might have a solution for your medic problem,” Wolffe says. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”

Cody’s datapad pulses. He flicks Wolffe’s portrait to a corner of the screen and pulls up the file he just sent over. It’s bare-bones: just a CT number and a combat record that starts with Geonosis. Cody scrolls through it quickly, then frowns.

“He’s had a lot of previous assignments.”

Wolffe shrugs. “Sometimes you get transferred.”

Once or twice. Sometimes three or four times. Five, rarely. But more than that? Cody narrows his eyes. “You said you had a solution,” he says. “Not another problem.”

“He is a solution,” Wolffe returns. “You need a medic.”

“Why has he been assigned to so many different units?”

“It’s been a long war. Everyone needs medics.”

“But not you.”

“We’re good,” Wolffe says. “And anyway, I transferred him before we left our last orbit. He’s on a medical station right now, with orders to board the _Negotiator_ as soon as it docks.”

Cody pinches the bridge of his nose and presses his eyes closed. Just as quickly, he yanks his hand away.

Obi-Wan does that. When did he start, too?

“Thank you,” Cody says. “I think.”

Wolffe’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Wordlessly, he holds up a palm; the holo shimmers like rain, casting him, for an instant, in strained silver light.

“ _K’oyacyi_ ,” Wolffe says quietly, and bows his head.

Cody mirrors him. “ _K’oyacyi_ ,” he whispers, and presses his hand to Wolffe’s rippling blue. Stay alive.

Then the light dies.

Cody swears under his breath and fumbles with the transmitter. It’s a futile effort: the signal’s gone, and with Wolffe so far away, there’s no easy way to get it back. He tries anyway. The commlink beeps indignantly at him. He swears at it. It beeps back. He smacks it.

“That doesn’t seem very productive, sir.”

Cody snaps his head up so fast his vision blurs. Waxer is silhouetted in the doorway. He gives a tired smile and holds out a datapad. “You wanted a headcount,” he says, and swallows audibly. There’s a sheen to his bloodshot eyes. His hair, usually shaved away, just barely shadows his skull. He’s out of armor and fully upright, but somehow, between the tension corded through his shoulders and the fatigue set in his half-smile, he looks smaller. Tired. Worn.

Too young.

“I did,” Cody acceded, and moves to stand. Waxer crosses the space in two strides and pushes him back down into his chair.

“Here,” he says, and shoves the datapad at him. Cody fumbles with it. Waxer steadies his hands. His grip lingers on Cody’s wrists, desperate and grasping, as if he’s afraid Cody will disappear if he lets go.

“Waxer?”

Waxer’s throat bobs. His fingers tremble and release. He steps back. “The headcount’s on there,” he says. “Mirj and I spent all day cross-referencing reports.”

“Any good news?”

“Some.” Waxer’s jaw twitches, once. He takes a shaky breath. “And I guess some is better than none, Commander.”  
Carefully, so carefully, Cody shifts to his feet. This time, Waxer doesn’t try to stop him. His eyes follow Cody’s measured steps, then drop to the floor when Cody comes to a stop in front of him. A tremor runs through his shoulders – wracks his spine.

“It’s okay,” Cody says, and pulls him into his arms.

Waxer’s always been one of Cody’s gentlest brothers, soft in voice, safe in touch. He presses his face into Cody’s shoulder and holds on with a desperate care.

“It’s okay,” Cody murmurs, and presses his palm to the back of his neck and squeezes. Cradles him close. It’s all right. Hang on. You’re safe. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” Waxer manages. His next breath is a tremulous gasp. “I—”

Sarrish hasn’t scarred for any of them yet.

“It’s okay,” Cody says, and lets him shudder. Lets him grieve. Too many lost. So many gone. Shattered plains and silent hell. It’s too quiet, now. “I’ve got you, _vod_. I’ve got you.”

For a long time, Waxer doesn’t move. When he does pull away, it’s jerky and hesitant. His gaze slips off Cody’s like glass.

“Get some rest,” Cody says, and breathes a sigh of relief when he gets a nod.

Waxer moves like a dead man. The door hisses closed behind him. Cody sags back in the chair that isn’t and has never been comfortable and ignores the pulsing pound in his side. His chest hurts. His throat is tight.

The datapad is heavy in his hands. He knows what he’s going to find before he opens the report.

Some of their brothers survived; some made it out on the transports, some crawled to freighters fleeing the planet and managed to stow away or else were taken in by a pilot who saw fit to spare them from Sarrish’s inferno. Cody’s heart twists.

Not all of those men will make it home: they’ll be sold to the Separatists or shot and left to rot.

He makes it through the report once, quickly, and then puts it down. He’s supposed to rest, supposed to take it easy, stay in one place, ask for help, but all he can see is Halcyon, crushed to ruin. He has brothers out there, right now, staring into a bleeding sky with wide, vacant eyes. Staring down a barrel with their hearts in their throats. Can’t get to them. Can’t save them. Can’t bring them home.

He has to move.

Since Sarrish, Cody’s put the battalion on a strict sleep schedule: structure is more conducive to recovery than chaos. There’s no one else in the corridor.

No one else except Obi-Wan Kenobi.

In his rush, Cody almost runs him over.

Obi-Wan’s hands fall on his biceps, steadying him until he has his footing. That mask cracks, just a little; fear bleeds from his face in webbed veins.

Cody’s side aches.

“I’m okay, sir,” Cody blurts, when Kenobi’s vice-grip doesn’t release. “I was just—”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to move about the ship alone,” Obi-Wan returns. His hold on Cody’s arms slowly eases, then falls away altogether. Like Waxer, he hovers stiffly. Unsure. Unbalanced. It’s not a presence Cody’s used to Obi-Wan having. Kenobi is confidence and calm; he exudes chaos and control in equal measure. He stands fierce and fearless at the front and fights; he drops to his knees and holds a wounded man’s hand and breathes comfort and peace. Warrior. Soldier. Healer. Haven.

Right now, he seems more shadow than solace.

“I’m fine, sir,” Cody says. “Mirj said the wound is completely closed. The scar tissue’s still a little tender, but that’ll pass.”

“You should listen to his instructions.” It’s gentle, but in no way a reprimand. Obi-Wan’s voice is softer than he’s ever heard it. “You need to rest.”

“I’ve spent the last week resting.”

“Cody, you were almost killed.” This time, it comes out even and practiced; it’s just a little too smooth to be natural. “You need to take this time.”

“I have taken time, General,” Cody says. He spent almost a week lying useless while his brothers carried on all around him. He can’t afford to be still.

He can’t afford a reprieve.

Obi-Wan takes a measured breath. “You are not immune to combat stress,” he says.

“Sir, we were designed to withstand any stress.”

Something in Kenobi’s face flares, flushing away the fear. The mask drops away. They’ve had this conversation before. Cody sets his jaw and steels his gaze. His shoulders are stiff, suddenly. His side aches.

For the first time since Sarrish, Obi-Wan meets his eyes. All at once, Cody’s standing on a precipice and staring into the dark. Weak warmth. Strained light. He expects fire, he expects a fight, but Obi-Wan’s surge was short-lived.

He just looks tired.

“Please,” Obi-Wan says. His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat harshly and reaches out – and stops. His hand hovers, trembling, between them, then falls heavily to his side. His face smooths; his tone evens. “Please just get some rest, Commander. We will be making our way to the medical station tomorrow.”

The men they’re supposed to bring on-board aren’t on the medical station; they’re at a base a half a day away. “For our new medic,” Cody says, more like a question than a statement.

Obi-Wan nods agreeably. “I received Commander Wolffe’s transmission,” he says. “But we will be bringing more than one man back from the medical station. I’ve arranged for the other survivors to be returned to the battalion.”

Relief rushes over him like a wave. Cody’s almost dizzied by it. “Yes, sir,” he says, and hopes he sounds more coherent than he feels. The survivors. Some of his brothers, at least, are coming back home. “Thank you, sir.”

Obi-Wan tries to smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Get some rest,” he says again, and with a final bow of the head, he moves by. Cody feels his passing like a whisper.

For a moment, he’s desperately cold.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “General,” Cody greets, without looking up. He’s staring intently at a simulation playing out on the holotable. He’s braced against it; his elbows are locked. His fingers are curled tightly around its edge. Obi-Wan almost asks him if he feels all right, if the desperate grasp is to keep him upright when he should obey his body’s plea for rest. The simulation flashes – and Obi-Wan stops.
> 
> It’s Sarrish.

Anakin has contacted him six times in the last two hours.

Seven, Obi-Wan corrects. The red light on his comm. is pulsing; his former apprentice is trying, yet again, to reach him. Perhaps he should concede: press the key, pull up the holo, and do his best to talk past the dark circles beneath his eyes. He could always lower the transmission quality so his image is full of crackling static.

But this is Anakin: as brilliant with a hydrospanner as he is with a saber. There will be no fooling him by tampering with simple mechanics. He’ll know what’s been done immediately.

Obi-Wan drops his head into his hands and massages his temples. Persistence is one of Anakin’s greatest strengths. For the moment, however, he wishes that – just this once – his former Padawan would leave well enough alone. _I’m fine_ , Obi-Wan had told him, when they’d spoken in the battle’s immediate aftermath, and hoped that the tremble running down his spine didn’t betray itself in his voice. _I’ll speak with you later_ , Obi-Wan had said, and pressed what ragged serenity he still had left in his storm-wracked soul through their bond. Hoped it didn’t feel too wrong.

Hoped it didn’t feel too lost.

“Please,” Obi-Wan says, to the mute silence. His quarters are sparsely furnished. He’s seated cross-legged on the floor, cushioned only by the thin meditation mat that Ahsoka ‘commandeered’ from the Temple stores. It’s simple tan; he supposes, belatedly, that he should be glad she didn’t select one of the more garish colors usually reserved for the younglings.

Not that he would have ever refused it.

The commlink beeps insistently again. Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and answers.

Anakin looks frazzled. His hair is tangled in waves all over his head, wild and windswept. His tunic sits askew on his shoulders; patches of it are seared and blackened. Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow and gathers his robe more closely about him.

“Anakin,” he says evenly. “I trust you’ve had a productive campaign.”

Anakin snorts. His holo flickers. “You look terrible,” he says. “When was the last time you slept?”

It’s a question Mirj asked him, yesterday. Obi-Wan didn’t have an answer for him, either. “Last night,” he says, instead of the truth.

Anakin rolls his eyes. “I’m supposed to believe that?”

Obi-Wan’s heart twists. His throat aches. Huddled in those caves on Sarrish, sealed from the sun, he’d strained to remember what his last words to Anakin had been: wondered if he should have said _goodbye_ instead of _May the Force be with you_ , and then made himself dismiss the thought. A Jedi does not indulge mortal musings. There is no goodbye. There is no death. There is only the Force. It flows like infinity: unfathomably vast.

“The way I see it,” Obi-Wan says, and tries for a smile, “you don’t have much choice.”

Anakin wrinkles his nose. “Sarrish,” he blurts. All at once, his voice bleeds open worry. Heart on his sleeve, his Padawan. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Obi-Wan says, just like he did before and will again, as many times as it takes to make himself believe it. “Just tired. What happened to you?”

Anakin rolls his head back until his neck cracks. “Ahsoka and I ran into some trouble with a few flamethrowers,” he says. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

There’s a distant scoff. “Sure,” Ahsoka says, somewhere out of the holo’s view. “You say that now.”

“We were doing fine, Ahsoka.”

“We did fine,” she corrects, “after Rex, Echo, and Fives outflanked them.”

Anakin does his best to look vaguely annoyed; the pride shines through his smirk anyway. Cody has praised Rex’s training and drive at every opportunity. Since Rishi, and especially since Kamino, he’s extended that praise to include Echo and Fives. Exceptional, he’d called them; the best ARC troopers he and Rex had ever trained, he’d said, and Obi-Wan had believed it without question.

“Yeah,” Anakin accedes. “I guess.”

“Flamethrowers,” Obi-Wan deadpans. “Who, pray tell, was operating them? Certainly not the B1 models.”

“No,” Anakin says. “Bounty hunters. Dooku’s put a price on Jedi.”

Obi-Wan frowns. Unsurprising, all things considered, but difficult to enforce in Republic-controlled territory without drawing attention and ire. “How much?” he asks.

Anakin jolts, then steadies himself. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I worth more to them than you?”

It feels wrong to joke, with the ghosts of their dead hanging heavy on his soul. If Anakin notices how forced Obi-Wan’s smile is, he has the decency not to mention it. “I didn’t ask,” Anakin says. “But if they caught either of us, they’d probably just kill us.”

Obi-Wan remembers Geonosis, remembers a restraining field and a taunt and a darkness settling around him like a diseased cloak, and shakes it off. “Perhaps,” he allows.

The tips of Ahsoka’s montrals peek into the holo’s frame, then dislodge Anakin’s face altogether. “Master Obi-Wan,” she says. “He’s supposed to be in the medbay.”

“Unsurprising,” Obi-Wan says. “Go and let Kix to treat you, Anakin.”

“Maybe the Force sustains me.” There’s no teasing to his tone; Anakin’s brows are furrowed. A shadow falls on his face. “Have you eaten anything lately?”

“Mirj gave me a ration bar this morning,” Obi-Wan says, and doesn’t mention that it’s been hours since then and he hasn’t felt the need to seek sustenance since. Maybe that should worry him more than it does, but hunger and thirst are for the living: for the hearts pulsing with life and love: not this hollow shell. “Don’t worry, Anakin.”

“You know me.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. “I do. And that’s why I’m reminding you.”

Anakin shoves Ahsoka. She disappears from view, presumably to recruit Kix to her cause. Anakin looks as though he’s going to follow her – and doesn’t. For a long beat, he lingers.

“Go,” Obi-Wan says. “You need to get those burns looked at.”

“You would tell me if something was wrong,” Anakin says, and meets his gaze squarely. Across the lightyears between them, his fear aches. Their bond roils with it. Obi-Wan does his best to soothe him through it, taking gentle hold of that writhing shadow of terror and dissolving it in a soft shower of sparks. They shimmer like stars.

Anakin’s shoulders relax noticeably. “Get your burns looked at,” Obi-Wan says firmly. “And get some rest.”  
Anakin salutes him. For a beat, Obi-Wan can breathe.

The light pulses, once, and dies.

He sits, silent, in the solemn dark for a long time. By the time he gathers himself enough to make the trek to the bridge’s briefing room, Cody’s already there.

“General,” he greets, without looking up. He’s staring intently at a simulation playing out on the holotable. He’s braced against it; his elbows are locked. His fingers are curled tightly around its edge. Obi-Wan almost asks him if he feels all right, if the desperate grasp is to keep him upright when he should obey his body’s plea for rest. The simulation flashes – and Obi-Wan stops.

It’s Sarrish.

Carefully, Obi-Wan palms the table off.

Cody snaps toward him. Fire blazes in his eyes. It’s only there for a moment, and then it’s gone. He sets his jaw. “General,” he offers stiffly, and straightens to his full height. “I was just…”

Torturing himself. “There was nothing we could have done,” Obi-Wan says, more calmly than he feels. Cody’s presence in the Force is jagged; he reads like an open wound.

Cody takes a measured breath. His hand curls into a fist at his side, clenching so tightly his arm trembles. “Yes, sir,” he says, clipped. “Understood.”

Obi-Wan’s spent the last week turning it over in his mind, trying to find the flaws. They landed on Sarrish, readied their forces, and launched their assault on the Separatist stronghold. Republic Intelligence gave them bad data; Dooku’s cruisers weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the planet, let alone the system. Obi-Wan, lying awake staring at his ceiling and telling himself meditation was a suitable substitute for sleep, could only come to the conclusion that it had been a trap from the start: Dooku lured them there, boxed them in, and broke rank and bone beneath an onslaught. History will name it a battle.

Obi-Wan will name it a slaughter.

“I received word that our reinforcements have arrived at Omicron Base,” Cody says slowly, as if he’s not sure he’ll be heard.

Obi-Wan comes back to himself in a rush. “That’s good,” he offers, a bit more awkwardly than he means to. It feels like an apology.

Cody doesn’t acknowledge it. “After we reach the medical station, we will make a jump to the base and bring them on-board,” he snaps off. “We will greet them in the landing bay. Once we’ve made the usual introductions, our platoon commanders will run them through the standard battalion orientation. They should be up to speed in no time, General.”

Always a next step. Always pressing on. Cody demands more of himself than he would ever think to ask of his brothers. “How many hours did you sleep last night?” Obi-Wan asks, before he can stop himself.

Cody arches one eyebrow at him over his datapad. His eyes are fixed on the scrolling logs. “A sufficient number, sir.”

“If I consult Mirj—”

“Mirj is otherwise occupied,” Cody says. “He doesn’t have time to monitor my sleep schedule.”

“You need rest,” Obi-Wan counters. “You were—”

“I sustained a serious injury,” Cody says shortly. “I didn’t die.”

 _You could have. You would have._ It burns on his tongue. Obi-Wan didn’t tell him, and he doesn’t know why. Wonders if he should. Wonders if it would make a difference.

Wonders why keeping quiet feels like a lie.

“Of course. I only meant—”

“General, if you have concerns about my fitness for command, I suggest you relieve me of duty,” Cody returns icily.

Obi-Wan stops abruptly. His heart turns. Too far. As rocky as the very first months of their joint command had been, he’d never even considered asking Cody to step down. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to question your judgment.”

Cody’s face is unreadable. Obi-Wan schools his expression into a convincing imitation of the same. “The new men,” he redirects. “What’s their experience?”

Cody’s shoulders settle back. Some of the tension drains from his frame. Suddenly, they’re not so offset. “A few batches of rookies,” he says. “And a good mix of experienced men from other units. They’re combining them with what’s left of the 212th.”

Apart, there aren’t enough of them to form a full battalion. “And the other survivors from Sarrish,” Obi-Wan reminds.

Cody doesn’t smile, but his expression relaxes. “Yes, sir,” he says, so pleasant that Obi-Wan almost flinches. After the sharp cold, the sudden warmth seems wrong. “Thanks to your work.”

“All I did was ask.”

Cody nods and, mercifully, doesn’t push any further. The compliment slips away. His eyes are back on the datapad. “We’ll be arriving at the medical station in a few hours,” he says. “Until then, I’ll be completing death certificates in my office.”

“I can help with that.

“No, sir,” Cody says. “You have other work to complete. Let me handle it.”

He doesn’t have anything else to do, not right now, and Cody knows it. “Cody,” Obi-Wan says gently. “You don’t have to bear this burden alone.”

He shifts as if he’s going to take a step forward. Close this strange distance between them. Set a hand on Cody’s shoulder and say, in word and deed, _you’re not alone_.

Cody flinches.

Obi-Wan stops.

“Thank you,” Cody says shortly, “but I can handle it.”

Obi-Wan falls silent. Cody waits. “Of course,” Obi-Wan manages, when he finds his voice again. “I understand.”

When Cody leaves, Obi-Wan doesn’t follow.

* * *

The medical station to which they have been directed to report is located in the Mid-Rim, not far enough from the core systems to be considered an outlier, but close enough to the Outer Rim’s hyperspace lanes that it mostly services the fleets assigned to the more remote regions of the Republic annulus.

Excluding the station’s defense grid, the _Negotiator_ is the only Star Destroyer in the immediate vicinity. They identify themselves to the outpost, transmit the proper codes, and receive coordinates at which to wait for the shuttles filled with still-recovering survivors.

Despite their fatigue, the _Negotiator’s_ bridge crew is still terrifyingly efficient. Not for the first time, Obi-Wan wishes there was some way he could grant them a reprieve. Just some small step away from the war.

Just a little time to grieve.

Cody’s helmet is tucked neatly under his arm. His shoulders are set back. He waits until they receive the signal from the station, then leads the way to the landing bay. Obi-Wan falls into step at his side. There’s no witty banter; there’s no easy camaraderie. Every muscle in Cody’s body is strung tight with tension.

When he comes to a stop, the hand curled around his helmet trembles.

It is their custom to stand shoulder-to-shoulder when greeting new or returning arrivals. Obi-Wan does not ascribe to that routine today; instead, he allows an extra step between them.

The space eases some of the stiffness in Cody’s stance; his breath leaves him in a controlled exhale. It’s not quite relaxed, but it’s not so painfully taut anymore either.

Obi-Wan wonders if he should consider that a small victory.

The shuttles touch down in a stuttered sequence, their ramps groaning open one after the other with several long, offset hydraulic hisses. If Cody’s bothered by the noise, he doesn’t show it; his face is unmoving. His helmet is held steady beneath his arm. Obi-Wan would say he envied him that stability if he hadn’t just seen the chaos rippling beneath the surface a few seconds ago.

That hard-won composure cracks the second the first shuddering boot hits the ramp. The wounded the _Negotiator_ managed to exfiltrate from Sarrish before their front failed and the world fell were very few in number, when compared to the companies of which they were once part. They shuffle down the ramps in uneven lines. The more gravely wounded are being helped along by the station’s medics; those that can stand on their own follow after them. The men still in need of consistent medical attention will be moved to the ship’s medical bay and relegated to a bed there until they’ve recovered enough to be cleared. The fate they face on the _Negotiator_ is not so far divorced from what would otherwise await them if they remained on the medical station.

The only difference is that here, they’ll be among their closest brothers while they heal.

Cody clips his helmet to his belt and holds himself motionless until most of the shuttles have emptied, then surges forward. His hands fall on his brothers’ shoulders and hold tight: Obi-Wan watches his mouth form the same words, over and over again: _I’m here. You’re safe. Welcome home_. There’s a frantic desperation in his eyes. There’s a lingering grief to his grip. Every time he shifts from one man to the next, he takes longer to let go. Obi-Wan doesn’t have to look closely to see the fear and relief warring on his face: Cody, for all his usual calm and control, is a maelstrom.

“I could use a little help here, General, if you don’t mind.”

The medic’s voice jolts him. Obi-Wan shakes his head to clear the haze, moving to help them shift the stable but still considerably wounded men onto hovering stretchers. With each touch of the hand or brush of the shoulder, he sends a soothing pulse through the Force. Don’t drain yourself, Mirj told him, but here, now, in the face of all these men have survived, he can’t bring himself to heed those instructions. The Force sustains him, and so he will use it to sustain them.

The medics must notice the sudden lack of pained tension corded through some of their patients, though they don’t mention it. They live and work aboard a medical station; the odds that they’ve encountered Jedi healers, like Barriss or Bant, are high. Obi-Wan’s grateful for that. Cody’s too occupied tending to his brothers to take note of what he’s doing, and Mirj is busy in the medbay. If by some unfortunate strike of fate Obi-Wan encounters their medic again, before he’s had a chance to meditate and recover his strength, he can always put his exhausted state down to emotional drain.

By the time they’ve welcomed the survivors home, he can barely manage to keep his eyes open. Cody sees the last man through the door into Waxer’s care, then spins about and marches back toward Obi-Wan, coming to a decisive stop a meter away.

Obi-Wan straightens his shoulders. “How are they?”

Cody considers him silently. For a moment, Obi-Wan’s sure he’s failed utterly at disguising the fatigue settling in his bones. He opens his mouth to speak. Cody beats him to it.

“Thank you, General,” he blurts. “For bringing them home.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Obi-Wan returns. “As I said, all I did was ask.”

Cody’s palm presses to his side, over the still-healing wound. His throat bobs, once. “I do,” he says, a bit more stiffly than before. “I owe you that much.”

He almost says _You don’t owe me anything_. The roiling conflict in Cody’s stare stops him. “I’m…only happy to have helped.”

The answer must be acceptable; Cody doesn’t counter it again. The raw vulnerability he showed his brothers shutters away, concealed by the same cool mask he’d worn during their discussion on the bridge. “Waxer’s getting the survivors settled in,” he snaps off, as brisk as ever. “I’ve assigned Boil to help him. They’ll check on them in regular four hour shifts.”

Without the crush of tired life from the shuttles to flood his senses, the bay feels empty. Cody’s signature bleeds a stark crimson. “Of course,” Obi-Wan agrees neutrally, and clasps his hands together inside the sleeves of his robe. “I think that’s a well-formed plan.”

“If there’s nothing else, General, I’d like to get back to my office. I still have death certificates to complete.”

Cody calls them certificates, but the reality is that what he’s doing is little more than manually updating files to read _deceased_. It’s tedious work – and there are hundreds.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan allows, and stops.

Almost as soon as the words break the open air, Cody’s gone. Obi-Wan watches the door slide shut behind him. The space rings empty in his absence.

And Obi-Wan stands alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic exists because I read [Fields of Ribbon by Thalius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947866) and it hit me so hard that I started writing RYHS. What I'm saying is that that fic is fantastic and you should all go read it.


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